


my heart beats a rhythm

by dinosaurdragon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Original Crest, POV Third Person, Pre-Canon, Temper Tantrums, Time Skips, Trans Character, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurdragon/pseuds/dinosaurdragon
Summary: Voski von Nazaryan was destined for something big, mostly because the universe didn't want to listen to his whining if he didn't get it.Or: A set of backstory vignettes for an original character, who will be part of a friend's work.
Kudos: 1





	my heart beats a rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> good afternoon this is a break from my typical dragon age hyperfocus to bring forward my darling _other_ self-based bullshitty oc. his name is voski and he is a tiny nightmare and i love him very much. his cousin, iva, is [my friend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticxPanda/pseuds/CelticxPanda)'s oc, and she will be writing a fic. voski is not the main focus of that fic but that doesn't mean he didn't demand his own.
> 
> i may write more bullshit for him as her fic progresses, depending on how much voski whines at me. he is an attention whore and he knows it.
> 
> when you picture him, think smol ballerina with the general aesthetic tastes of an unapologetically extra "luxury" vegas hotel suite. vaguely roman references and lots of ostentatious displays of wealth. especially with gold. lots of gold.

Voski’s parents knew, from the very early months, that their child would never be easily contented. It was most difficult then, before there was speech, though it did not take long to recognize the various cries. They were distinct enough to distinguish: high and long for hunger, low and squirmy for discomfort, red-faced and wet for people, and so on.

The crying tantrums did not fade with age; they only changed.

By two, Voski was headstrong and all but impossible to coerce into contentedness. Voski’s preferences were known, and they were abided by—if they were not, the whole house was treated to a terrible tantrum.

And at three, when babble became comprehensible phrases, Voski made a decision. “Mama,” Voski said, tapping Maral’s arm until she focused all of her attention on the very important matter at hand. “Mama, mama, mama!”

“Yes, my darling baby?” Maral asked, picking Voski up into her lap. “What does my pretty girl want?”

Voski blew a raspberry. “No! Not a girl. Mama’s a girl. Iva’s a girl.”

Maral raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Then what is Voski?”

Arms going akimbo and forcing Maral to maintain the delicate balance of her child, Voski declared, “I’m a boy! Like Papa!”

“A boy?” Maral echoed, tickling Voski. “I think Voski is a silly-billy!”

Voski laughed loudly, falling into the tickle fight with a delighted, “Noooo!”

If Maral thought that would be the end of it, though, she was wrong. It was like Voski had developed a supernatural sense; anytime she referred to her ‘girl,’ suddenly there’d be Voski, loudly denying this. Elijah—Voski’s father—gave in to the demands first.

“If he wants to be called our son, what’s the harm in it?” he asked Maral, who pursed her lips and watched Voski playing house with his cousin. “He’s a child, and he may yet grow out of it, or he may not. Isn’t it more important, my love, that he knows we will respect who he is regardless?”

“I just don’t follow the logic,” she said. “Voski still wears dresses and talks of being a ballerina, ‘like mama.’ She doesn’t—yes, fine, _he_ doesn’t even ask for a different name. I’m not heartless, Eli, I just wonder if he’s not confused what it means to be a boy or a girl.”

“And what _does_ it mean?” Elijah asked. “It will only be an issue when he’s of marriageable age and is looking to start a family. Let him experiment and learn, love. It hurts no one.”

Maral’s uncertainty did not disappear overnight, but time passed, and Voski’s choice never changed—only became more complicated, in fact. (“In hindsight,” Elijah said to his wife one night years later, “we should have expected he’d make even something so simple into an eclectic series of demands.”)

Voski at seven was a spoiled terror at least as often as he was a sweet high-bred lady. (And, yes, he insisted on being called a Lady. Apparently, it sounded better than Lord.) He threw fits to get his way, coerced his cousin into his plans, and batted his eyelashes to avoid punishment.

“C’mon, Iva!” he wheedled, not for the first time. “I wanna see!”

“But—won’t they know?” she asked, older and wiser. “They’re already wrapped…”

“We can put it back!” He gave her his most winning smile, tugging on her hand. “I’m really good at bows!”

Iva eyed the presents. They were for Voski, yes, but they were for his _birthday_ , and that wasn’t until tomorrow. His parents had made sure to put them on the middle shelf that he couldn’t reach because he’d been known to sneak peeks.

But Iva was taller than Voski, and she could reach the gifts, which Voski had realized immediately. Iva, still uncertain that this was a good plan, hesitated. “It’s only until tomorrow, Voski…”

“That’s for _ever_!” he whined. “Please, Iva? Oh! I can have Mrs. Waverly make the ginger cookies you like tomorrow!”

“But isn’t she making you a strawberry-blueberry cake?”

“She’ll change it if I ask! She has to ‘cause it’s my birthday.” Voski bounced in place, his curled hair accentuating the movement. “Please, Iva, please! Just one! The blue one!”

That was the biggest. Iva could probably get it down, if she was careful. Unless it was heavy. But it probably wasn’t. Most of the time, the big boxes had fancy fabric for making dresses out of, or maybe a hat or a doll. She sighed. “Okay.”

Voski whooped and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug, crushing the delicate flower that had been pinned over his heart. “Yay! Thank you, Iva!”

She hugged him back, then quickly pushed him away. She stood on her tippy-toes, fingers just able to snag the gift, and hoping against hope that this could be done and over with before—

“Voski! Iva! Where have you gotten off to?”

Iva jumped away from the gifts, the large blue box still mostly on the shelf. Voski shrieked and grabbed her hand, running and laughing through three rooms like a hunted fox.

Like his mother, Voski bore the Crest of Dantzari. Since he was an only child—his birth had been complicated, and Maral would never bear again—this was a great relief to his parents. They began searching for an appropriate match for him by his tenth birthday.

Not that they were looking to arrange a marriage so early, of course. Ten was too young for even a proper betrothal; however, it was not too young to begin considering what options might be available. There were a number of young nobles in the Alliance who were close to Voski’s age. Elijah’s brother, Pavlos, was already doing the same for Iva.

As the chairwoman of the Dancer’s Guild, Maral had many connections. More than a few expressed interest when she mentioned looking for a match, but Maral knew Voski would need someone with resources—and, unfortunately, very few dancers ever managed that. No, it would be best if he could marry someone wealthy.

And to ensure the best possible match, well.

“Voski, darling,” Maral said. “Come here. Let’s have tea, hm?”

“Yes! Ooh, Cake!” Voski scurried over, pausing only long enough to sit in the careful manner that would not crush the silk of his dress. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Mind the teacup.” She watched carefully as he dutifully ensured his spoon did not clink against the delicate porcelain as he stirred sugar into his tea. “I have a question for you, Voski.”

“I have an answer,” he replied, feeling clever. His feet still didn’t touch the ground when he sat, so he swung them gently.

She smiled indulgently. “When you are grown, you will have to marry,” she told him, “like your father and I did.”

“Uh-huh.” He put an embarrassing amount of cream on his scone. Really, he should be fat with how much he ate. “And I get to wear a _beautiful_ dress, right?”

“If that’s what you want, dear, then of course you do.” Maral wondered what kind of dress he would choose. It would be dramatic, that much she knew. “What kind of person do you hope to marry, darling?”

Mouth full, Voski hummed. His hands held still, and even his feet stopped their swaying as he considered the question. “A prince,” he decided. “Like in the stories. And then I’ll be a princess, and my carriage will be a pumpkin, and I’ll get to live in a tower.”

Typical Voski, she thought. It was so rarely about anyone but him, and on the few occasions that it wasn’t about Voski, it was about Iva. “That sounds wonderful. What kind of person would this prince be? Handsome and strong? Or is he smart, or brave?”

“Handsome and strong!” He was starting to bounce now, waving his teaspoon in the air as he demonstrated—something. Maral didn’t have any idea what it was meant to be. “And tall and nice! And he’ll have horses, and his castle will be so big!”

There weren’t many princes to be had, unfortunately. Maral sipped her tea and smiled as Voski animatedly began to explain, in great and fantastical detail, exactly what his future husband would have, down to the special cats. The Alliance was rather definitive in their choice _not_ to have a prince, or anything of the sort. But, well, there were still dukes and counts, and perhaps that would be close enough.

Duke Riegan’s heir might be aiming a bit high, but Count Gloucester? Voski had the right breeding: nobility of the von Nazaryans with a Crest from Maral’s line, and he knew how to behave himself properly, even if he did tend to pick and choose when to make use of that information.

A proper introduction would not be out of the question. Maral began mentally drafting the letter to Count Gloucester as Voski planned out the color of his future bedspread. (Blue! With gold unicorns on it!)

Iva von Nazaryan was arguably the center of Voski’s world—when it wasn’t him, anyway. He followed her around everywhere, tried everything she tried, and never grew out of the habit of dragging her into helping him. (If he fell ill, he always convinced her to bring him the sweets his parents insisted sick children didn’t need.) He also developed a habit of acting as her backbone.

“Oh,” Iva said in a particular instance, smiling at a menu of food she hated, “Thank you for invitation. It sounds wonderful.”

“Don’t lie for my sake,” Voski added, despite having spotted a few things he quite enjoyed. “You know I _despise_ asparagus and eggplant. No, this simply won’t do. I absolutely refuse to starve because some amateur thinks asparagus and eggplant makes for an _appetizing_ meal.”

“Voski, we’re guests,” she protested, quietly.

“So we should be treated better! If our host wants to show us the hospitality we deserve, they will adjust the menu. I think a mushroom ravioli sounds nice, and it’s in season.” Voski crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at the sweating messenger standing before him.

“M-milord—”

“ _Lady._ ”

“A thousand pardons, milady!” The messenger swallowed and wrung her hands together. “The—the menu is a set one—I’m not sure if—”

“You would allow your employers to embarrass themselves by presenting food I won’t eat? Do you think no one will notice? What will people say? No. If I’m to be a guest, I will be served food I actually care to eat.” Turning to Iva, he gave a wide-eyed pout. “I’m so sorry, cousin, but we simply _can’t_ attend the dinner of one so thoughtless.”

“I’m sure you could find something to eat,” Iva insisted, scanning down the menu. “It would reflect poorly on our house to refuse for such a frivolous reason. Our parents might not let us attend things on our own again.”

Not that they were ever entirely alone. Even if their parents weren’t in attendance, servants of the von Nazaryan household would be along to help. Still, Voski huffed, stamping one foot against the ground. His face grew less and less agreeable. “It would reflect poorly on our hosts for not taking our preferences into account!”

“Look, they’ve steak tartare for an appetizer—”

“I don’t _want_ steak tartare!” Voski’s hands balled into fists, and he stamped his foot again. “I will not attend a dinner where none of the food will be to my liking! It is an insult to the host not to eat, and an insult to me if the food is unsuited, and I will not bear it! I simply won’t!”

(If Maral had hoped his tantrums would disappear with age, she was sadly mistaken.)

The messenger, with wide eyes that leapt from Voski (whose arms were now straight at his sides) to Iva (still desperately looking through the menu), squeaked out, “I’ll pass on the message! M-mushroom ravioli, you said?”

Voski blinked and looked back, hands lifting to his chest. “Oh, would you, please? I would so love to attend this event, and of course would be _most_ grateful to the thoughtful host who realized and fixed his error after remembering his guests’ preferences. I’m sure it’s just an unfortunate misunderstanding!”

The messenger, finding her mouth too dry for speech, nodded emphatically. Voski smiled, all encroaching evidence of his building tantrum gone behind the cherubic face of a young Lady. He penned a short note—stating much the same as he had just told the messenger—and sent her off whence she came.

“You love steak tartare,” Iva accused, as soon as the door was shut.

“Yes, well,” Voski breezed, “you hated everything on the menu, and we can’t have that. I knew you wouldn’t complain, so I did it for you.”

She took a long, slow breath. “That won’t work forever.”

“Sure.” He was already thinking about which dress he should wear. “Do you think it’ll be too warm to wear wool?”

House Gloucester was basically royalty, as far as Voski was concerned. Sure, the whole point of the Alliance was that there wasn’t royalty, but wasn’t the point moot when they ended up choosing a leader, anyway? And the Count Gloucester always had power, and money, and—most importantly—social standing.

The current Gloucester heir was only a few years older than Voski. Lorenz. Voski decided he liked the name. It was smooth and fluid, but strong! Because of the z, probably.

Maral and Elijah had been in courting talks with attendants to the family, then the family, then Count Gloucester himself. Arranging a betrothal was not a simple matter, after all, and both families were quite insistent that their children be happy with the match, too, or it would be called off.

Maral, determined to prove Voski was the best possible match for Lorenz, spent weeks preparing him to meet the Gloucester family. She drilled him on manners for every possible eventuality and even had a new dress made for the occasion. (This may have been in part to bribe Voski.)

Thankfully, Voski was very good at convincing people to like him. It had to be his appearance, Maral thought, because while she did love her child to pieces, his personality was often a difficult one. At least he was pretty: golden blonde hair with the bare suggestion of curls, the pretty green eyes of the von Nazaryan line, a perfectly delicate ballerina’s build, and a cherubic face that got him out of all manner of trouble.

Maral bought him a green dress to bring out his eyes and even let him wear a light touch of makeup for the occasion. Just a dusting of rouge on his cheeks and lips, barely enough for the color to register.

Count Gloucester was very interested in the Dantzari Crest and what a von Nazaryan connection could bring to his family. Lorenz, appropriately, was far more interested in Voski.

“You’re even more beautiful than my father told me,” he said with a bow upon Voski’s introduction. His lips lifted into a perfectly poised smile. “Even flowers cannot compare.”

Voski tittered and curtsied. He almost forgot to respond, but Maral’s hand on his shoulder pressed down. “The honor is mine!”

“There is tea awaiting us in the parlor,” Lorenz said. He held out an arm, bent at the elbow. “Would you honor me with your presence?”

So this is what it meant to be treated like a princess! Voski smiled, all but glowing as he basked in the attention. This time, he didn’t manage to get any words out, but he did slip his hand around Lorenz’s elbow, precisely as he’d been taught, and that was answer enough. Lorenz led him away to the parlor as the adults settled down for preliminary discussions in the drawing room.

Lorenz poured the tea, and that simple act had Voski near to swooning. He was older, he was handsome, and Voski had most certainly not forgotten that their parents were mere rooms away, talking about potentially marrying the two. Perhaps it wasn’t quite the love story one read about in books, but it could be close enough.

Voski giggled a thank you when Lorenz handed him the tea. “Oh! Is this a honeyed apple tea?”

“Excellent deduction,” Lorenz said. “It is indeed. I was told you have a sweet tooth; I hope you like it.”

“It’s delicious,” Voski gushed. It was fine. Brewed precisely as recommended, but Voski always preferred something that had steeped a touch too long. It would be rude to mention, though. “You’re very kind.”

“You’re my guest of honor! I could do no less, especially for a noble lady such as yourself.” Lorenz smiled, perfectly practiced to accentuate his face best. “I already know about your family, the von Nazaryans. My father would not have agreed to these talks if you weren’t of quality stock, after all! But we should get to know each other first, shouldn’t we?”

Hm. Something about that sentence didn’t quite sit right with Voski, but it was hard to think when such a good-looking young lord was giving him so much attention. It felt like his brain had fled the field, leaving only his heart (and other, secret parts he was just discovering) to make decisions. “Of course!”

“I can already see that you’re beautiful, of course. This is obvious to anyone with eyes.” Lorenz made a show of looking over Voski. “I know you possess the Dantzari Crest—from your mother, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right. She used to be a ballerina. She’s the Guildmaster now.”

“Not noble-born, though. A pity, though you’re still noble, of course, and that’s what counts. Your father is a second son, isn’t he?”

Why did it matter if his mother was born noble? “That’s right. I’m third in line for the von Nazaryan title, after my cousin and my father.”

“Which means your only true option is to marry someone who _will_ inherit.” Lorenz crossed his ankles and took a sip of tea. “How lucky for you that I happen to be such a person, and that we’re so close in age.”

It wasn’t untrue, but what a strange way of putting it! “I’d rather be in love, I think.”

Lorenz nodded. “Of course. It’s a romantic ideal, and it would make for a much happier marriage. I’m certain I could woo you, if that is what you desire. I’ll buy you your favorite flowers, take you to fine restaurants, and send you gifts to ensure you think of me. On the subject, what are you favorite flowers?”

Well, that all sounded much better. Voski wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this whole meeting, just yet, but he couldn’t help the blush that rose on his cheeks. The simple idea of being wooed was too nice. “Roses.”

“The most romantic of flowers! They’re a favorite of mine, as well.” Lorenz pulled a long-stemmed red rose from the floral arrangement at the table and held it out. “I think we can spare one for a lady whose beauty surpasses it. What use is a centerpiece when the most stunning thing sits across the table?”

If Lorenz kept up the compliments, Voski was sure to implode. He could barely remember to reach out and take the offered rose with grace, breathing in its sweet scent. His face was as red as the flower itself.

Sufficiently distracted from any of the stranger things Lorenz brought up, Voski fell into a pattern that would become familiar. Anytime an attractive young man paid him mind, he transformed from confident, demanding young lady into a blushing maiden of the Church—or, in more severe cases, a rambling idiot.

The pattern slowly dissipated around Lorenz. The first reason was simple familiarity, as they met more often and Voski gained a kind of comfort around his potential betrothed. That was a nice reason. That was a reason Voski had hoped for.

The second reason was not so nice. The second reason was because of Lorenz himself. Lorenz, whose compliments tied Voski’s tongue and bade his cheeks to flame red, also allowed those same compliments to be showered upon any eligible young noblewoman. It would have been fine, maybe—or, Voski could have learned to be fine with it—if Lorenz did not also say he was evaluating those same ladies, to see if any were fit to be his bride.

Even though they were not betrothed, knowing that Lorenz felt no obligation to treat their parents’ negotiations with more than a stronger focus on Voski… It turned Voski’s opinion. By the time he was fourteen, merely a year after having met the Gloucester boy, he no longer wanted to be betrothed to him. The negotiations slowed.

He wasn’t quite fifteen when Iva said to him, “My father will be sending me to Garreg Mach next year. Apparently, most of the other young nobles our age will be attending then, even Claude, so he thought it would be best if I get to know them better.”

“Then I’ll go, too!” Iva barely had time to finish speaking before Voski shot up, dragging her along towards his parents’ office. “Mom! Mom, I want to attend the Officers’ Academy with Iva!”

Maral took a deep breath. “Voski, the Officers’ Academy is for those who must know how to fight.”

“So? It’s still an academy, and Garreg Mach has some of the best books on magic! I could study how to change bodies on the side. It’s not like fighting is hard.” He flounced over to her, putting on his brightest smile. “I know how to use a sword just fine.”

Maral rather doubted that. It had been difficult enough finding books containing knowledge of the magic that he’d used to prevent his breasts from growing, let alone anything more complex. “Darling, you know your research is something new. Garreg Mach’s books are old. I don’t think they’ll have what you need.”

“And it was old magic that got me this far!” he insisted. “I simply _must_ go!”

“Voski, listen to your mother,” Elijah said. “The Officers’ Academy would take up so much of your time; even if Garreg Mach has the information you want, you would hardly be able to search it out.”

“It’s no joke, that school,” Maral added. “Students do more than sparring and swinging swords at dummies there. You would hate being on a battlefield, darling.”

“How do you know? You’ve never been on one.” Voski’s excited expression started fading. “Please, can’t I go? It’s not fair that Iva gets to go and I don’t.”

“Iva is going because she is to be the next Head of House von Nazaryan.” Maral nodded to Iva, who stood quietly against the wall, face drawn and clearly preparing for what everyone knew was coming. “You, my sweet angel, intend to be a researcher and a Lady, managing a household for your husband. Am I wrong?”

“No, but—”

“And when Iva was tutored in archery, you begged for more dancing lessons, which I agreed to, because you said you would never need to know how to fight.”

“I did the sword fighting, though!”

“Yes, but you asked for vocal lessons instead of learning the lance. Darling, you simply aren’t suited for the Officers’ Academy. I will not send you.”

“Mother!” Voski gasped, face breaking into a pout.

“No, Voski.” Maral turned away.

“Iva isn’t going for another year—I can take lessons in lance and archery and be ready in that time!” He reached out and took hold of her arm, bouncing in place as though that might change her mind. “Please!”

“I said no.” She took his hands and removed them from her arm. “That’s final.”

The pout grew to a wail, though it did not move Maral. “That’s so unfair!” Voski cried, stamping his foot.

“You have fine tutors here.”

“I don’t want tutors! I want to go with Iva!”

“You can’t follow your cousin around forever.”

“I don’t care!”

“Yelling won’t change anything.”

“I hate this!”

Voski stormed from the room, face blotchy and wet, wailing at the unfairness of it all the way back to his room. Iva trailed behind him and attempted to offer comfort once they reached his tall, canopied bed.

“It’s only for a year,” she said. “And I promise I’ll write often.”

“Letters aren’t the same! A year is too long! What if you change? What if I change?” He hid his face in his pillows, curling into them.

“You can come visit, I think.” She put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed it down his back. “I’m pretty sure people are allowed to just go and see it.”

“But it’s so _far_! Mom and Dad would only let me go once! And maybe not at all! Iva, I can’t stay here without you!” He turned from his pillow to cling to her instead. “You’re my only friend here!”

Even if one counted Lorenz for a friend—which Voski didn’t, really—that became moot, because Lorenz, too, would be at the academy with Iva. And Claude! Anyone else who mattered was too far, and none of them compared to Iva, anyway.

She continued to attempt platitudes, but Voski just wouldn’t hear it. He didn’t calm down by dinner time, and picked at his food through the whole meal enough that his mother had to ask him to eat something, please.

The next few days, he refused to leave his room for anything. He took his meals in his room. He pushed assignments to his tutors through the crack under the door. He had a tub brought to him that he might bathe.

After three days, he refused to do his assignments.

After a week, he refused to speak to anyone except Iva.

Maral and Elijah attempted to sway him. They spent a great deal of time talking to his closed door. Maral had a new dress made for him. Elijah brought in a pastry chef to create Voski’s favorite sweets.

The dress was left untouched outside his door. The pastries, too. His fifteenth birthday drew ever nearer, and a party had been set—but Voski refused to so much as make a sound when his parents attempted to bribe him with outlandish gifts and promises.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this, love,” Elijah said, standing at the end of the hall and looking at the pile of offerings that had been left outside their son’s door. A servant took the day’s pastry away. Hopefully someone would eat it, if Voski refused.

“Eli… he’s not fit for the academy.” Maral held her arms close to her chest. “I don’t know if it was that magic or something else, but he’s so small—he’s never even seen battle. He barely cared for the sword lessons.”

“A few more days, then. Maybe he’ll come around.”

He did not. When asked why her cousin was doing this, Iva shrugged. “He said it makes him too sad.”

He had a funny way of showing it, Maral thought, but did not doubt that Iva spoke the truth. Voski probably even felt that way, too. For all that he threw tantrums and whined, he was not a subtle manipulator.

It was the first refused meal that broke Elijah’s composure. “I’m requesting he be admitted to the Officers’ Academy,” he declared, immediately. “Maral, I know you’re concerned, but this simply cannot go on. He’s never acted out this way before. You can be cross with me all you like, but if the only thing that will get my son back is agreeing to send him to Garreg Mach, then I’m doing it.”

Maral was silent as Elijah began to pen a letter, staring at Voski’s closed door and untouched dinner. It was a large plate, but no larger than he usually ate. He’d certainly left more of his food uneaten lately—especially the vegetables he’d never been fond of—but to refuse an entire meal? It was unheard of.

She knew her son was spoiled. He was bratty and demanding and _spoiled_ , though that last could easily have been her own fault. She and Elijah very rarely refused him anything. There was rarely any reason to, especially when it prevented his whining.

Had she spoiled him rotten? Had he decided to take this extreme step just to convince her to send him to a school where he’d learn things he’d never needed?

She took up the key to his room and walked to the door. It was not something she or Elijah had ever used for punishment. The door locked from the inside, and if Voski chose to lock it, this was typically respected. The key was heavy in her hand.

Should she have pulled him from his room earlier in this rebellion?

“It’s not fair,” she heard him saying to someone. “I _know_ I won’t always get what I want. And I know Garreg Mach is for people who want to be knights or who will be leading battles, and I’m neither of those things, but…”

“I know.” It was Iva, of course. Saints, but that girl had endless patience. “I’m sorry, Voski.”

“I just have this horrible feeling. It’s stupid and probably nothing, but I feel like something terrible will happen if I don’t go.”

“Nothing will happen. You’ll be safe here, and I’ll be with teachers who can step in when something seems bad.”

“I know, but I just… it’s just a feeling. I already said it’s stupid.”

“Maybe it is, but you’re not.”

“I feel stupid.”

“That’s just your stomach saying it’s empty.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Voski…”

“Don’t ‘Voski’ me. I’m just not hungry.”

Maral backed away from the door, the key dragging her hand to the ground. There were only two times that Voski wasn’t hungry: when he had just eaten, and when he was ill. If even the thought of Iva’s departure could cause this… She strode back to her husband’s side.

“Make sure he’s enrolled in Iva’s class.”

Goddess protect him.

**Author's Note:**

> i have ocs with taste, elegance, and refinement. voski is not one of them, but he thinks he is. i hope you like this whiny monster baby anyway :)


End file.
